


Give Him The Rest

by CBlue



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Getting Together, Monster of the Week, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, She also might ship it, Sort Of, based on a "everyone is attracted to Geralt" joke I saw on Tumblr and ran with, canon typical violence but not graphically described, roach is best girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: Her hands moved, touching his blood-soaked tunic as green eyes turned half-lidded in the dark. “How can I repay you?” Her voice was lower than his own heartbeat.Something akin to a chuckle escaped from Geralt’s core. He shook his head once before stepping out of the water passed the woman. “Go home,” the Witcher spoke to the young woman, “stop bathing where monsters lurk.”“Perhaps I shan’t,” her voice took on a flirtatious nature, “if some of those monsters look like you.”Alt. Five Times Geralt Was Thanked Plus One Time He Said Thank You
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt/Original Character, but all of that is mostly one-sided except the geraskier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 429





	Give Him The Rest

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be 6k with a smutty sort of end but turned around to be 8k with a fade to black sex scene. So if you're looking for smut, I am sorry. I hope you enjoy this because it was a lot of fun to write! I love 5+1 Things and it was a fun format to stretch in. All creature knowledge comes mostly from the Wiki and what little I remember of the games. Special shout out to my children who fed my Witcher fire, and to @gayregis for informing me of a very cool Witcher factoid in that Geralt doesn't shit talk when he fights. (But, oh, was I tempted.)

_ 1. _

The town was begging for help against drowners. Their gold and cries were more than enough to have Geralt hunting into the night. The young maidens had been warned not to bathe, not to lure the beasts out. Geralt huffed as the only noise of the night.

Temeria was always willing to spend gold. The kingdom was large and creatures always roamed. This small village was no different, and its coastal climate begged for drowners to spawn in the heart of it. The swamps were dark, dreary, and dead.

Geralt could see with his heightened senses. Hear the disturbed water over the rhythm of his slow beating heart. He crept further along into the darkening swamp before pausing completely. The sound of disturbed water was more than things lurking about. There was a heartbeat, a hum.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Geralt muttered as he rushed himself. Feet keeping high with his steps in order to keep himself out of the muck. The mud clung to his heavy steps and yet the swamp would not take him. The heartbeat lead him to the water.

A beautiful young maiden, surely one of the women who was warned of this, bathed in the water. Why this woman had decided to bathe in the dark of the night, Geralt had no clue. The only thing he was certain of was the drowner in the depths, creeping toward the woman.

“Get out of the water!” Geralt roared, leaping toward the water that sought to hide the beast in its breast.

The woman screeched, sound escaping before a long hand entrapped her throat and drug her beneath the water. Geralt hissed another curse as the water splashed around his body, coming up to his torso as he strode through the water, sword poised. The drowner would be nye impossible to spot if it had not been for his mutations, for his potion.

As it was, he was quite literally built for hunting. For monster slaying. Gritting his teeth, Geralt lunged for the form in the water. An unholy screech rang high in the dark of the night as the drowner and his near victim breeched the surface. The drowner released her, and her auburn hair flying behind her was Geralt’s signal that she had run from it.

It was a single drowner, this one. No nest of them or anything for this small village. A plague nonetheless. Geralt swung his silver at the drowner. Long limbs flailed and danced away from the bite of his blade, but to no avail. The drowner’s long claws scratched at Geralt’s face and armor, but nothing deep enough to scar. He had enough scars from things fiercer than a drowner.

Panting, Geralt grimaced at the drowner blood coating his blade. The body of the drowner sunk into the murky water. Geralt grunted as he submerged his hand into the water, snatching the corpse for proof of the contract fulfilled.

A pant of fear alerted Geralt to the presence of the woman. She clutched at what was presumably an article of her clothing that had been laying on the muddy shore. Startling green eyes pierced through the darkness as her red hair fell over the swell of her breasts. Geralt grit his teeth as he sheathed his sword, dragging the drowner to shore with him.

“You saved me,” she spoke breathlessly, soft hands pausing just short of his chest as he moved closer to her.

“Hmm,” Geralt turned his head and blackened gaze away from her. He threw the drowner to the shore, watching as the woman flinched with the thud of the body. She was young, far too young to be here after dark.

Her hands moved, touching his blood-soaked tunic as green eyes turned half-lidded in the dark. “How can I repay you?” Her voice was lower than his own heartbeat.

Something akin to a chuckle escaped from Geralt’s core. He shook his head once before stepping out of the water passed the woman. “Go home,” the Witcher spoke to the young woman, “stop bathing where monsters lurk.”

“Perhaps I shan’t,” her voice took on a flirtatious nature, “if some of those monsters look like you.” 

“Some of those monsters,” Geralt grasped the drowner by its neck, holding the body up until the moonlight reflected off of its glassy eyes for the woman, “look like this.”

She paled even in the bleakness of this swamp. Nodding, she regained her voice. “Thank you, Witcher.”

Geralt grunted, turning to leave her without another word. There were no drowners to worry of, and if the woman was strong enough to make it out here then Geralt did not doubt that she was strong enough to make it back.

_ 2. _

Much farther from so close to the heart of Temeria a group of farmers pleaded with Geralt to take their gold and save their fields from a ghostly apparition. From the tales they wove of a woman inviting the farmhands to a fatal dance, Geralt guessed it to be a noonwraith.

Vicious things, noonwraiths. Once you dance in their circles you can never leave. Geralt told Roach as much as he tended to her in the stables. The villagers had offered to keep her as Geralt traipsed into their farmlands.

“Let me go with you.” A voice called from behind Geralt. The Witcher turned, seeing a man in his mid-life. “I can hold a sword.” The man gestured with his steel, seeking to prove to Geralt that he could hold the blade steady.

“Hmm,” Geralt turned to face Roach. If she could, it seemed that the mare had rolled her eyes. “That blade is made of steel.”

The man furrowed his brow, flickering his gaze from his blade to Geralt quickly. “Aye, it is.”

Geralt sighed, turning to face him even as he kept a hand to Roach’s man. “Then it won’t do you any good against a noonwraith.” Setting his features into a frown, Geralt gave his horse one last pat before grabbing his things. “It’s silver that hurts them.”

Scurrying after Geralt, the man huffed a breath. “Well, I could hold silver too! Or- or anything!” He proposed as he hurried beside the Witcher. “Please… I want to help.”

A moment’s pause as Geralt halted in his steps, inhaling sharply, passed them by. He looked pointedly away from the man before glancing to him. “Keep your distance. There’s a reason you people hired a Witcher.”

It wasn’t exactly a no, so the man took to following Geralt on his hunt. He kept to the back, of course, the closer they got to the field. Even the promise of fight left him at the sight of that ghostly maiden. Geralt slowly unsheathed his silver sword, watching her in the distance as the sunlight from the midday played between her fingertips.

Gritting his teeth, Geralt stalked through the high grass where she stood. A haunting melody seemed to take the day, making the afternoon look grim. Geralt watched carefully as the wraith turned, eyes locking with his own. She screeched at the intrusion of the Witcher into her dance. No pretending that he would join her circle.

Geralt swung his blade heavily, engaging in a dance of his own with her as he sparred with the daylight. She was fearless as all noonwraiths are. Only vulnerable to silver and a specific oil but immune to so much. Huffing a breath, Geralt caught movement from the corner of his eye.

The middle-aged farmhand held out his steel sword, calling her as Geralt grunted against her force. “ _ Fuck _ ,” Geralt shouted as he moved swiftly, using both magic and mutation to attract her attention away from the farmhand whom she desperately sought to lure.

The farmhand’s eyes were nearly sunken in with his close call as Geralt’s silvered blade slashed clean through the noonwraith’s spectral form. The farmhand gasped, hand dropping his own sword.

“Goddess,” he whispered, holding his hand to his mouth.

Geralt nodded, bending to harvest the ectoplasm that the wraith had left in her place. The farmhand had dropped to his knees beside the Witcher, form still shaking.

“You saved me,” his voice called for Geralt’s attention. The man’s heartbeat was like the wings of a hummingbird. Loud and boisterous in Geralt’s ears. “You saved my life, Witcher.”

Grunting instead, Geralt stood and pocketed the vial of ectoplasm. A useful regent for certain. No body as proof of contract, but certainly the witness account of this farmhand would do. He turned expectantly to the man, eyebrow raised.

The man’s mouth quirked into a nervous smile. “I really owe you my life, don’t I?” He licked at his lips, heated gaze flickering across Geralt’s face. The man’s adrenaline was rushing through his veins, heating his core.

“Nothing that any other Witcher wouldn’t have done,” Geralt brushed off the comment, turning to make the trek back toward the village and his payment.

“But it wasn’t any Witcher. It was you.” The man pressed, again walking to Geralt’s side. “The way you moved, sir Witcher. Like a man possessed.” The farmhand clearly eyed Geralt’s physique. Geralt knew what he looked like, knew where his mutations had aided him, but just as this town did not want their noonwraith so did Geralt not want these advances.

Geralt paused in his steps, jaw ticking. The farmhand was a handsome man, certainly, but blood rushing everywhere else for survival kept blood out of the brain. Blood out of the brain was lack of thought. “Go home to your wife,” the Witcher commanded of him.

The man blinked in shock, mouth gaping slightly. “How did you know I was married?”

Scoffing, Geralt allowed himself a small smile at how predictable humans were. “The only silver you’re carrying is on your finger.” The Witcher observed, golden eyes falling to the man’s silver band.

“Oh,” he spoke softly, cheeks heating from embarrassment and midday sun alike. “T-thank you, Master Witcher.”

“Hmm,” Geralt nodded, a silent promise not to speak a word of the man’s indiscretion. Geralt cared not for what the humans did or what they fancied. He only wanted his gold to keep him fed, a monster to be slain, and a sunset to ride Roach into.

_ 3. _

Geralt seemed to attract the most in the southernmost parts of the continent. Perhaps it was merely because most creatures hated the winter. Geralt could not blame them. The season was fucking cold and nothing could be done in that weather. Warm, humid climates attracted all manner of beasts so the same was true for the Witcher’s attraction to those areas.

Because of the monsters. Not the weather.

Grinding his teeth, Geralt pushed himself through the murky ruins of the village. The settlement had long since moved North after an incident with some Earl. Or something another. Geralt rarely paid attention to manners concerning men. It was only the monsters that concerned him.

The nest of bruxae the village was certain was holing up in the shell of their once village had already claimed three young people. Two men and a woman. Geralt could hardly blame young people for falling prey to seemingly beautiful creatures, but he knew better. Had known better since before those same young people were a spot on their mother’s skirt.

Geralt was just thankful he had not heard the singing yet. The singing would mean that they had already drunk their blood for the night. According to the village, the young people were daring one another to go out and spot the bruxae. Rather unfortunate and pig-headed. But these young ones had not seen war like Geralt had. Could have no idea how careless they were being with their lives after the sacrifice of their ancestors.

Not that Geralt cared what the humans did with their lives.

Hunting for a bruxa was never fun, let alone bruxae. Geralt could only hold his tongue that perhaps this one night the young people would have deemed the business too serious with a Witcher involved. Of course, that is when his ears picked up on the erratic heartbeat of someone young. “ _ Fuck _ .” Geralt muttered before pushing himself faster to catch the bruxae before they had eaten their prey.

A young man quivered in the den of them. There were only three bruxae in this nest. A small blessing that Geralt would not take for granted while dispatching them. The silver of his blade shone in the moonlight even as he tried to use the blanket of night to hide himself from the creatures.

A song came from one of them, warning the other two that an intruder was coming to steal their prey away. Geralt was getting fucking tired of these humans throwing themselves into danger. He drew the buxae away, quickly signing  _ Quen _ when one of the bruxa had taken to shrieking toward him. It was not much, but enough to give him the advantage.

Pushing the advantage, Geralt ducked behind one of the ruins. The cobblestones and bricks were hardly ideally for cover, but something was better than nothing. When one of the bruxa stalked pass Geralt’s hiding spot, he swung his silvered blade, cleaving at her neck. She let out a startled cry that was choked by his sword.

The other two quickly rushed to the sound. Where Geralt’s slow heart kept him hidden, his light footedness kept him quick, the call of the young man’s blood eventually wore on the bruxae. Even as they worried for a Witcher interrupting their feasting.

“Hey!” Geralt called, spinning out from behind one of the half walls. “Come over here, raven-haired mistresses.” He knew he was a force to be reckoned with. An intimidating foe. The bruxae charge together, sisters who move as one. But Geralt is knowledgeable in fighting against bruxae.

He fakes to his left, leaning right instead as he slashes one with the upward movement of his sword only to swipe the second with the fall of his blade. Geralt panted, grimacing through the blood and grime coating his face like morning dew.

“Holy  _ shit _ ,” the young man gasped, carefully stepping toward the Witcher and the slain bruxae nest. “You just- they just- holy  _ shit. _ ” He gaped for breath, heart racing and flushing his cheeks.

Geralt waved the young man off, sliding his silvered sword on the corpse of the smallest bruxae but only succeeding in smearing the blood further into his blade. Sighing, Geralt sheathed his weapon and turned to the still shaking man. “What?” He barked upon the intense stare of the boy.

“Fuck  _ me, _ ” his breath is blunt as is his desire. It’s not the first time Geralt has been propositioned after saving someone’s life and it won’t be the last. The Witcher would be lying if he said that the adrenaline of a fight had not affected his own body on numerous occasions. But never once, and certainly not now, did he ever feel like taking up a gracious offer.

“Run home,” Geralt commanded, examining the bodies of the bruxae at his feet. Quite a bit of harvesting to be had before he brought their heads back for the village. “Your mother’s probably worried about you.”

The young man who had certainly come out to this place with those same intentions seemed persistent. “You sure? I’d sure like to thank you, Witcher.”

Grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw, Geralt bore his heavy glare unto the young man. “Go. Home.” He hissed between his teeth.

Gulping as his heartbeat in unpredictable patterns, the young man nodded. Gangly limbs ran off into the distance, into the dark of the night. Sighing, Geralt bent down to examine the bruxae closer. Always after the horny ones, they were. But those humans and their sexual desires were easy prey.

Geralt almost couldn’t blame them.

_ 4. _

It’s not often that Geralt found himself exterminating plantlife for his line of work. Sure, echinopsae were carnivorous like bruxae, bred from terrible things like drowners, and came from horrid things like noonwraiths, but they were hardly something that a good fire wouldn’t take care of.

A simple man with his family was too weak to take care of them. His sister was more than willing to go out to their family gravesite and take care of it herself, but the farmer preferred to send a Witcher off on such a quest than his only living relative. Geralt could understand wanting to keep your family safe, even if he had never experienced it. He had been around men long enough to know.

But the woman was strong and insisted she come with him. So Geralt had little concern of her following him. As long as she didn’t die, Geralt could easily destroy the echinop and collect his payment. Riding along on Roach with the farmer’s sister trailing beside him, they traveled in silence.

Geralt did not often take traveling companions. In fact, it had only been quite recently that Jaskier the bard had taken to traveling with Geralt whether the bard was welcomed or not. It was easier to accept the bard than to fight it. He rambled and talked too much. Constantly made noise.

The farmer that traveled with him now was the opposite. She kept to herself, fiddling with her ax or adjusting her belt as they traveled. After a few moments she would comment about the trail to her family’s grave, but other than that it was blissful silence. The blissful silence ate away at Geralt’s patience.

He did not prefer dealing with people. The highlight of dealing with Jaskier was that Jaskier dealt with the people. Wrote ballads that got the Witcher paid. He snorted a deep laugh. A dying breed indeed that Jaskier was preserving.

“What’s so funny?” She had introduced herself as Winona Made some small talk. Her eyebrow was raised as she looked up to the Witcher.

“Nothing,” Geralt grunted as he urged Roach onward. According to Winona, the grave was not too far. Monotonous work for little gold, but Geralt could not deny a dying man. Even if he knew the darkness to the matters of men, he held sympathy for their bleak lives.

It was not even dark yet by the time they had reached the small gravesite. “Many of our family is buried here,” she spoke gently. “But only our brother was murdered.”

Echinops were notorious for growing where terrible crimes were committed. They would exact vengeance on criminals or anyone who stood in their way. It was a particularly intriguing instance in this case. Apparently, Winona’s brother had robbed their mother’s grave, but his partner had murdered him and taken off with the valuables. From that desecration and murder came the echniop. It had taken root on top of their brother’s grave but prevented them from seeing their mother.

“Surprised you buried him at all,” Geralt huffed as he dismounted Roach. They were close, and he preferred to keep her out of harm’s way.

Winona was quiet for a moment. “He was our brother. Always.” She spoke honestly.

Geralt could not say that he fully understood the sentiment, but he was familiar with it. Had seen it in the humans he had interacted with all of his life. If he were to truly consider it, he would say it made no sense at all. His mother had abandoned him; she was not his mother always. She had forsaken that and in turn, she had lost that privilege. But humans felt in mysterious ways, it seemed.

The echinop was a large fucker. It aggressively snapped at them before they had even stepped atop the hill. Geralt rolled out of the way of its swinging body. “ _ Fuck _ ,” Geralt hissed as it swiped the blade from his hand, taking no heed of Winona’s deft strikes.

She was powerful, certainly, but even the strongest fighter fell without knowledge of their enemy. Geralt pushed himself off the ground, moving close enough to sign  _ Igni _ onto the thickest part of the echinop. Blood rushing in Geralt’s ears from his companion, the screech of the echinop, the squaw of the birds as they fled - noise, noise, noise in stark contrast to the itching peace that ignited Geralt’s veins like his own magical sign.

Winona panted, wiping the plantlike blood off of her face as she let her ax drop with a thud to her side. Geralt could admit, he might not have gotten close enough for  _ Igni _ without her. Not that it was particularly hard to admit when any of his traveling companions fought well. At least this one could hold her own. Not like Jaskier. Jaskier constantly needed Geralt’s looking after-

“Well,” Winona huffed, smirking as she wiped at the sweat on her brow. “I have to say, Witcher. You’ve got a…” her eyes roamed over his body. “Well,  _ something _ about you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt strode over, retrieving his blade and sheathing it. “We best return to your brother before it gets dark.” He eyed the sun as it began to make its descent. Grimacing at the smell of the echinop, Geralt turned to look at the gravesite. “This’ll start to rot soon, too.”

Winona swayed forward, eyes alighting with that same, thunderous adrenaline that had lead Geralt to countless propositions. “Well, we’ve got time to kill.”

If there was ever one to persuade Geralt, while adrenaline thrummed in his ears and the high of battle still ebbed at him, it would have been this one. But brown eyes and silence contrasted too deeply to blue eyes and noise and Geralt could not find it in himself to say yes.

“Hmm,” he hummed again. “Best get a move on.” Geralt dismissed gently, much gentler than he had previously on the occasions he could recall.

Shrugging, Winona stepped back and gestured down the hill, away from the family plot and back toward the farmhouse. “If you’re sure, Witcher.”

He was sure. Fairly.

_ 5. _

Geralt had never hunted a Djinn before. Before he had been lacking sleep, he had never thought he would encounter one, but he had grown desperate. In his desperation, Jaskier had become injured. The foolish bard had made damnable wishes, wishes Geralt could hardly focus on with the power of the Djinn surrounding them. That magic always came with a price.

The price had been Jaskier’s voice. His throat swelling with a tumor. Geralt had ridden all the way into fucking Rinde to save the bastard. Then along came the sorceress of Venerberg and her wish to control the Djinn. Foolish, foolish thinking on her part.

“Oh really?” Yennefer quipped. “And you think fighting this Djinn is more plausible?” She shouted over the whirlwind of the Djinn as it sought to take over here vessel. Geralt was certain there was an irony there, but he was too exhausted to find it.

No sleep and a debt to be paid to the sorceress who had saved his bard, Geralt gritted his teeth to move against the storm of the Djinn.

“I have it!” Yennefer had argued. “Fuck off!”

“I’m the one with the wishes!” He shouted, calling for her attention. He was indeed the true master of the Djinn, and he still had one wish. Fuck, all he had wanted was sleep. Now, this mayor’s entire house was to fall on them.

Yennefer looked, understandably, pissed.

Screaming, the sorceress used her strength to rein in the Djinn. Geralt gritted his teeth. If she would not release it so he could banish it, then he would have to do the deed himself before Yennefer burned away under the Djinn’s magic.

“I wish,” he whispered under his breath. “I wish-”

A thrashing as Yennefer was forced back, the Djinn dismissed and vanishing. But already the damage was done to the manor, the top floor shaking with the might and force that it had been put under. Yennefer’s violet eyes were piercing as she tried to keep them open, to find her strength so that she could survive the collapse.

Geralt had no greater warning as the ceiling collapsed on him. When he could regain awareness of his surroundings, he was on the first floor. Rubble everywhere as the sorceress lay next to him. Sunlight filtered through the windows as Geralt’s mutated lungs coughed up dust. “ _ Fuck, _ ” Geralt hissed.

“You stupid piece of shit,” the sorceress berated him as she pushed herself up from where she lay. “I had it! I almost had it!” Power was what she sought but that power would burn her. Geralt felt a kinship with this sorceress, felt he owed her for the life she had given back to Jaskier, and he could not allow her to suffer in her search if he could prevent it. “I didn’t need you to save me!” She spat.

“Hmm,” Geralt shook himself to regain his senses. “Because retaining a Djinn promises a long lifespan.”

“Fuck off,” Yennefer barked instead, grunting as she pushed herself over to look at Geralt where he lay beneath her. “I had it.”

Geralt nodded, “I’m sure you did.” He spoke the lie. Perhaps there was an understanding in her eyes, or perhaps it was smoldering heat.

Heat burning as they both lay there, charged with the Djinn’s magic and the manor’s collapse. Geralt looked to her, expecting the words before she even said anything. And wasn’t that lovely that Yennefer was not one for words, was one of action, that she had grasped Geralt and sought it?

All the more strength, ignoring his own blood and pumping heart, as he pulled away. He had thought he wanted this when she drew to him, thought he had drawn to her too, but something felt off. Another thrum in his ears.

She raised her eyebrow, mouth smirking. “No?” She drawled out the word.

The thrum became a voice - Jaskier’s voice - as the bard stood outside one of the windows. The perfect view of Yennefer straddling Geralt. Something about Jaskier seeing him in this compromising position burned him. He hadn’t cared what others thought of him, what they perceived of him, but then again perhaps Jaskier had always been different.

Yennefer leaned down, kissing him like a smoldering fire before pulling away. “Guess more than a friend then, Witcher,” she teased before pushing herself off of Geralt’s chest, hand swirling and summoning a portal for her to skip through.

The Witcher was left on the ruined floor of the manor, heart beating slowly and heavily in his chest as he felt Jaskier’s eyes upon him. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, and for once he wished he had said yes.

“ _ Fuck _ .”

_ +1. _

It was not often that Geralt would encounter a striga. In this equivalent of a human life, Geralt had only faced off against one striga. That was in Temeria’s very heart. Now, this was his second in a small, sleepy haven where souls dared not wander in the woods at night. It was farther North than faithful Temeria, but no matter where the striga lay, they were always the same.

Jaskier followed behind dutifully, strumming his lute as he walked beside Geralt. “So -  _ exactly  _ \- how much farther is this striga of ours?”

Grunting in response, Roach did not falter in her gait and Geralt did not utter an answer. The bard would keep himself occupied as always.

“I suppose a lonely beast, once woman, alone in the dark, will make for an excellent tale.” Jaskier sighed wistfully, half-tune already formed on his lute. “The Witcher who slew her, putting her out of her misery.”

Geralt huffed as he adjusted the bag over his shoulder. “There’s a cure for striga.” He corrected Jaskier’s half-assed facts of creatures as he always did. Always Geralt pretended the bard kept himself occupied and always he proved himself wrong by engaging with him.

“Oh?” Jaskier swung his lute over his shoulder, clapping his hands together as he kept pacing with Roach’s gentle stride. “And what cure is that? You fought a striga in Temeria before, yes? At the behest of King Foltest?” He grinned easily as his inquiries never ceased. “Free that one too from the confines of her curse, O’ White Wolf?”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed his reply, shoulders not even gifting the bard the faintest of shrugs. Geralt had many titles in his -  _ admittedly -  _ fairly long life. Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, Butcher of Blaviken, White Wolf, but none had used all of them quite so much as his bard. Save for the moniker of Butcher which Jaskier had quickly learned not to use.

Jaskier hummed his own tuneful reply as his steps carried music with him. “I think that perhaps that should make the tale,” he spoke aloud his thoughts, “the Witcher who did not so much as slay a striga, but free her.”

Geralt would not admit it, but he could not fight the small smile that ebbed at his features. He was weak to it. Jaskier was noisy, disturbed the very air around him, and despite the surge of unwanted attention, he was a comforting presence. So Jaskier’s ballads, songs, and purple prose were not so much as welcomed, but something that Geralt had considered to be a part of him.

“Striga,” Jaskier began, “h-how fierce are they? Describe them once more for me so I know what to run from.”

“When you see something,” Geralt turned a sharp smile toward Jaskier, “ _ run _ .”

An awkwardly strained chuckle came from Jaskier as he nervously brushed off Geralt’s taunt in the dark. It was familiarity in a way that usually Roach only provided. The sound of their breath, their heartbeats, something distinct that Geralt could ground himself with as they slowly crept closer to the crypt of the striga.

Humming, Jaskier seemed struck with the tune for his composing ballad. The bard hummed a few more bars, not quietly for Jaskier was never quiet, before opening his mouth. “ _ A tower stood tall, in a heart of black. Chained was a maiden, whose mind was slack.... _ ” His voice was a lullaby in his lyrical uncertainty. “No, no. How about, uh,  _ in the hands of the trees. Where once was a maiden, who longed to be free _ ?” Jaskier beamed as he rummaged through his bag, quickly retrieving his book. “Oh, now that is good.”

“It’s an old fort,” Geralt corrected as they moved closer to the striga’s crypt. They had to be cautious whilst traipsing through her hunting grounds, but if they could make it to the crypt before the sun rose than the striga could be freed.

“ _ Embellishing,  _ Geralt.” Jaskier gave an exasperated sigh. “Every great story embellishes the facts, my friend. How else would there be ballads?” His smile was carefree for a bard stamping through some unnamed backwoods under the falsehoods of story gathering. Geralt could count the number of fights and heroisms that Jaskier recounted on his hands.

That is to say, it was not a lot.

Jaskier blamed it on a basis. The  _ basis  _ of Geralt’s tales were just not enough. The bard would have to fabricate and from there he would ramble too much and the Witcher had found himself not so much as listening but watching. Geralt watched him.

Shaking himself back to awareness, Geralt furrowed his brow as a foul stench assaulted his senses. He halted Roach, pulling on her reins and Jaskier followed suit. The bard squinted out at the darkness worriedly before moving his gaze back to Geralt.

“What is it?” He asked in a whisper, voice barely restrained when alight with his nerves. Jaskier hardly carried fear in his sent, but there was something so human about him that blazed in his very core when he adventured beside Geralt. The Witcher could never tell if that was a good or bad thing, smelling Jaskier’s adrenaline and the scent coursing through him like his own energy.

Geralt dismounted Roach, swinging his leg over and furrowing his brow at the crunch beneath his boots. The striga was not supposed to be this far out. The woman, a lover cursed by the daughter of a baker, had kept closer to the old fort ruins in which kept her crypt. The village was simply learning to leave those lands alone. But apparently, rumor was true in that the striga was making her way inward, closer to food as the forest adapted to her, prey ran from her.

“Stay,” Geralt commanded to both Roach and Jaskier, unsheathing his silvered blade. Although his goal was to free the striga rather than slay her, it was survival that lead him to equip his sword. The core of his training. The core of this world and its Chaos and Destiny.

He did not need to hear Jaskier’s response as he rummaged through Roach’s saddlebag, pulling out one of his potions. Uncorking it with his teeth and spitting out the cork into the dark, Geralt chugged the vile liquid down his throat. It burned him. Burned his throat and his eyes. Grimacing, Geralt turned to Jaskier with eyes swimming in black.

Jaskier nodded dutifully, hands fluttering for a moment as they fiddled with the air. The Witcher did not wait for him to respond as he spun on his heel, marching into the heart of the striga’s hunting grounds.

The limbs of the forest tightened around Geralt, nearly swallowing his vision if it had not been enhanced by his elixir. A growl kept lodged in his throat as he scented the air. The forest was eerily silent now, signaling how close the striga had to be. A lurking from the depths, farther from his horse and bard. Geralt watched as a figure blurred behind the tree line.

Geralt turned his eyes to the sky. At least a few hours were still to be had before the sun kissed the striga’s skin. Growling, Geralt held his sword at the ready. He would just have to hold her off until then.

The striga lay in wait like a panther stalks her prey. Eyes glowed in the inky blackness of the thick of night. Smirking, Geralt poised himself as the striga lunged. Fighting was always a dance of sorts. Perhaps not the type done in tavern and courts, but a dance all the same. A lightness of feet, a swinging of the arms, balance. Not a racing of the heart, his mutation not allotting for that, but everything that Geralt had decided was part of human dancing - like gracefulness and agility - was held in fighting.

This was especially true when you were trying to keep the monster alive until sunrise.

A stirring from somewhere outside their battle arena, a whiny that Geralt could recognize from anywhere. It was enough of a distraction to have the striga swing one of her large arms, knocking Geralt off balance. Were he human, his spine might have broken from its collision with the tree. Instead, he felt himself bounce as his breath left him momentarily.

Instead of crawling toward its prone prey, the striga seemed more interested in going after the horse. Maybe it was an animalistic instinct to go after larger prey instead of the easy prey, although that had never been true in Geralt’s experience. Whatever the reason, Geralt watched as the striga lunged herself toward Roach and Jaskier.

Gritting his teeth, Geralt pushed himself off of the ground. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he yelled as he paused in his steps only to pick up his fallen sword. The wind was a howl in his ears as he raced for his horse and bard. What had Jaskier done? Why had Roach caused such a commotion as to draw the striga? There were still hours to go, and already Geralt felt a weakness growing in his arms.

The sight was Roach; raising on her hindquarters. The sight was Jaskier; wielding his precious lute, gifted from Toruviel. The sight was the striga; roaring after them.

Geralt roared after the striga, drawing her attention. She raised, mouthing dripping with a deadly threat of her bite. Teeth glistened under moonlight as something akin to a monstrous grin took over her features.

“This way!” Geralt roared, taunting the striga. “Get him out of here!”

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” Jaskier shouted, affronted that it was Roach taking care of Jaskier. But Roach had long since been Geralt’s companion, taking care of him. The Witcher trusted her to get Jaskier to safety. To outrun the striga.

“Go!” Geralt shouted, waving his hands about as the striga began her stalk toward him, hands dragging in the dirt.

Jaskier and Roach obeyed. The former mounting the horse and the latter letting him. Roach gave another whiny, another beating of her hooves before following Jaskier’s direction and her own common sense. Although Geralt had pressing matters, far more pressing then distracting bards, he could have sworn he saw Jaskier hesitate in the face of danger. The pinnacle of the type of traveling companion that he was.

The striga lunged, massive form hurtling toward Geralt. He was fortunate that his mutations and potion granted him an equal playing field, or else there would be no chance to keep her at bay. Only removing her head from her shoulders.

Dancing, dancing through trees and weaving in shadows until the night began to bleed into day. At which point the striga hissed toward the sky, turning sharply on her heel and thrashing to return to her crypt, her sanctuary. Geralt could not let her.

Limb bleeding from where the striga had cut into it, Geralt clenched his jaw tightly as he ran toward the fort ruins. Already his potion had wavered, but fortune had deemed the night dead enough that he could see without it. It was a race. Always a race.

Geralt leaped at the striga, holding his arms at her neck to hold her. She screeched, limbs flailing to knock the Witcher off. Teeth mashing and body thrashing, the striga knocked Geralt into the crumbling fort wall thrice over. The Witcher grunted each time, losing more breath and feeling his limbs grow heavy.

Finally, blessed finally, the sun peeked over the horizon and into the ruins. The striga screeched unholy as her skin burned. Burned off the decay and ruin that had marked her with her curse. Not born a striga, she would hopefully not have the same life as King Foltest’s daughter. Grimacing as his blood tacked to his armor, Geralt sighed deeply. His bones ached as the striga squirmed in the ruins, and Geralt followed her into that slumber of weariness.

He awoke to the villager healer, an older man, and his wife, tending to his wounds. Geralt grunted as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Woah!” Jaskier shouted as he seemingly appeared, he and the couple urging Geralt to move slower. “Do you wish to torture yourself by ripping open the stitches that dear old Fjord and Harriet achingly sewed for you?” The bard clicked his tongue.

The older couple - Fjord and Harriet - smiled knowingly. Geralt felt his skin itch under their gazes. It was Harriet who cleared her throat, speaking. “Thank you, sir Witcher.” She bowed her head. “We all owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Grimacing as he shifted, Geralt spared them a look that was perhaps softer than his reputation should have allowed. “Your gold will do just fine.”

Fjord laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “Thank you,” he spoke earnestly, gently handing Jaskier a bowl and a towel. “We must treat Morgana. Her wounds are not fatal, but her health must be watched.”

Geralt nodded in understanding, the couple bowing their heads in return before leaving. Harriet gave a wink over her shoulder before closing the door softly behind them. Grunting, Geralt felt his shoulder sting with his movement. He had not realized how deeply Morgana - as a striga - had cut into his armor. “Hmm.”

“ _ Hmm _ indeed, my friend,” Jaskier spoke quietly, voice hardly above a whisper. His hands, soft and calloused from his lute and not from battle, dipped the towel into the water bowl. The bard was tender in washing at Geralt’s bare skin that surrounded his fresh bandages.

The bard’s eyes were downcast. He seemingly refused to meet Geralt’s gaze. Geralt gently took Jaskier’s wrist in his hand. The Witcher was not surprised that the bard’s frame, while still built and lithe, was dwarfed in his grip.

“Jaskier-” Geralt began.

“Thank you,” Jaskier interrupted him. “Thank you for saving my life, Geralt.” This time the bard’s eyes, bluer than a summer sky, burned into what was left of Geralt’s soul. If he had any soul to be left. “I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” Geralt spoke without hesitation, releasing Jaskier’s wrist from his grip.

Jaskier’s eyes twinkled with something. Something that burned Geralt more than a fight, adrenaline, or chase. “Well, I think I at least owe you thanks.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Could’ve died out there, you know.”

Geralt grunted, testing the rotation on his shoulder and moving his skin away from Jaskier’s touch. The bard’s touched burned in no way that a sting of any creature known to witcher ever could. “I wouldn’t have let you.” He grunted, and now it was his turn to avert his eyes from his companion’s heavy gaze.

Putting the towel back into its bowl, Jaskier shook his head. “I was talking about you, Geralt.” He ducked his head, peering under his eyelids at Geralt. “You’re not exactly invincible.” Jaskier set the bowl down on the table beside the bed, the other hand drifting over Geralt’s bandage. “What a terrible ending. How could I have ever written about that?”

His voice sounded choked, poorly disguised as he cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, you’re here now, aren’t you?” Jaskier’s crow feet usually made his eyes shine, and yet in this moment, his smile looked tight. Too far stretched across his face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s heartbeat slow and steady, and yet those eyes once more increased what pumped through him. What surged him and moved him. He hadn’t the words. Words were for Jaskier, but he knew it. Knew it more than rumor and myth and what he was  _ supposed _ to be.

“I’ve been thinking of the rest of the lyrics,” Jaskier rambled, not heeding Geralt’s plead. Not that the Witcher knew what he was pleading for. “ _ A tower stood tall, in the hands of the trees. Where once was a maiden, who longed to be free. A steed and bard waited, with bated breath. Stayed in the moonlight, as the Witcher faced death. Then the Witcher- _ ”

His voice was too soft. His touch was too tender. His eyes Geralt could not stand upon him and yet wished him never look away. It beat through him in a manner like hunger. The same hunger that made him almost say yes to Winona, to Yennefer. And yet this was different. This was without battle. Adrenaline without fighting. His slow heart beating mercilessly in his chest as he thought of all the offers, the thanks, that had come along this path and the only one that mattered.

Genuine. Jaskier, for all his platitudes and falsehoods in song, had always been genuine. Been genuine with Geralt. And the Witcher was weak for it. The maidens, the farmers, they still wanted to take with their thanks, but never Jaskier.

“Geralt?” The bard called for his attention, having been interrupted when Geralt grasped his chemise in his fist. “Is everything alright?”

“Thank you,” Geralt said suddenly even though he couldn’t quite explain it at the time. Perhaps he wanted to return the favor, return the gesture. He had not spoken untrue when he said Roach was his longest traveling companion, and while perhaps he would always be bound to her, Jaskier was  _ loyal _ in a way that was so indescribably  _ human _ that is made Geralt almost ache. Ache with want and other dangerous things.

Jaskier gaped, a surprised laugh bubbling forth as his eyes widened. “What?” He grinned. “I hardly think I was worthy enough bait last night, Geralt. Driving the beast toward Roach - poor thing, what a champion - I’ll have to give her a song one of these days.” Jaskier’s face contorted for a moment. “What rhymes with _horse_?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt called for his attention again, pressing upon his words. “ _ Thank you _ ,” he spoke again. Hoping that the bard, who could read and tell the stories of the world around him, could see what he meant. Hear him.

“Whatever for?” Jaskier pushed. The damn bard always pushed. While it seemed Jaskier was getting better at speaking whatever unspoke language that Geralt had not even realized he was speaking, it seemed that clever bard was clueless.

Geralt grunted in response, slacking his grip on Jaskier’s wrinkling chemise. The fabric was softer than Jaskier’s skin, only the finest of cloth and silks for that bard. Geralt loved the feeling of it beneath the pads of his fingers. Idly wondered if Jaskier’s lips felt much the same way.

There was much -  _ too much  _ \- that Geralt wanted to thank Jaskier for. So instead he took one out of the playbook so run by him, so narrowly avoided and weakly rejected. Geralt pulled at Jaskier by his shirt and kissed him. As it turned out, his lips were softer than silk. Sweeter than honey.

It was only a moment, less than a moment, and Jaskier’s fingers were in Geralt’s hair. The Witcher moved his hand to Jaskier’s neck, cradling him close as his arm wrapped around the bard’s frame. Jaskier moved betwixt Geralt’s legs, standing before him as the Witcher sat at the edge of the bed still. A beautiful moan like a morning song emitted from Jaskier as Geralt deepened their kiss. Sweet and heavy like the richest mead on his tongue.

Geralt gripped at Jaskier, twisting them to move Jaskier on the bed beneath him. The bard moved with him. A dance of its own, hands twists into Geralt’s hair and running over his shoulder.

“Your shoulder!” Jaskier pulled away with a shout. His lips were attractively swollen, cheeks flushed. “You shouldn’t move it!” He reprimanded.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, paying it no head as Jaskier’s words were not a rebuttal. Merely more of the bard’s continual stream of thought. The Witcher could not help but to bury his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. The bard obviously hadn’t bathed, smelling of sweat, trees, and something distinctly Jaskier.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Jaskier’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, toes curling as he lay beneath Geralt’s hulking frame. “Well, if you really insist,” he breathed before capturing Geralt’s mouth again. The Witcher pushed Jaskier into the mattress, could hardly smell or feel whether the stitching on his arm was ripping when he was so focused on Jaskier’s scent, the feel of him.

Pulling at Jaskier’s chemise, Geralt bit at the exposed shoulder. The bard gasped, arcing into him and moving them impossibly closer. Geralt grunted, clenching his jaw as his pants grew uncomfortably tight, friction against Jaskier’s own slim-fitting trousers, not enough. Growling, Geralt moved one of his hands down Jaskier’s chest toward the lacing of his pants whilst his other kept pulling at Jaskier’s chemise.

“If you rip this,” Jaskier half-threatened, voice breathless as both of his hands worked on Geralt’s pants. “ _ Oh, _ that’s rather distracting.” He commented as Geralt worked on marking his neck.

Geralt smirked against the bard’s bared skin, licking at a strip of the slowly beaded sweat before successfully undoing Jaskier’s pants. He was already ripping at them until Jaskier slowed his pacing, hands on his wrists.

“This fabric is rather expensive, and if you hope to peel me out of them again you’ll have to be more careful,” his gaze was charged as he looked up at Geralt. “You… well,  _ this _ …” Jaskier eloquently pointed out. “Again?”

The Witcher did not like words. Or rather, he was not good at  _ using _ them, but he fully understood them. Understood what Jaskier was asking without asking. Had learned his bard’s language as much as the bard had learned his. “Again,” Geralt promised gruffly, burying his face in Jaskier’s slowly revealed chest. Scarred from the adventuring life on the Continent, but  _ soft _ in its hair and smoothness.  _ Soft  _ in Jaskier’s tenderness.  _ Soft _ in how much Geralt loved him.

Later, much later, when both were sated and Jaskier was trailing letters onto Geralt’s chest, the bard hummed softly. His leg brushed against Geralt’s calf as they laid intertwined. Geralt had not ripped his stitching as Jaskier had fretted, and they had yet to be evicted from the room.

“Your new song?” Geralt asked, moving his chin to rest on his chest so that he could catch Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier hummed, nodding before a slow smile overtook his features. “I think I like how this one ends.”

Geralt would not admit it - not yet - but he could never fight the small smile that ebbed at his features. “Do you?”

“Mhm,” Jaskier curled himself closer into Geralt’s frame. “ _ And then the Witcher, saved her pretty head. Took his bard, claimed him in bed. _ ”

The Witcher scoffed, hand-making to slap at Jaskier but instead cradling the back of his head. A wolfish grin, befitting of the title that this bard had bequeathed him, cracked across his stoic facade. “And he’s about to do it again.”

**Author's Note:**

> The original note for this was "its not about the mosnter ist about the smut" which I wrote on the doc at 2 am. I then proceeded to have no smut. I played myself. I also super love writing Jaskier and making song lyrics. This is my first AO3 posted Witcher fic!! Such a fun fandom to be a part of. Come scream and/or request over @corancoranthemagicalman on Tumblr!!


End file.
